


The Bear and the Hound

by drpeppapigphd



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), game of thrones
Genre: Betrayal, Consensual Sex, Enemies Become Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Drama, Graphic, House Mormont, I mean THE SLOWEST BURN, Love Triangle, Myra has a temper, Oral Sex, Romance, Sandor does too, Sandor is not the perpetrator though just fyi, Sexual!assault, Slow Burn, Violence, WILL TAG Sa!, War, angsty romance, does not really follow the series considering Jeor is still alive but hey, nsfw will be tagged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25743157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpeppapigphd/pseuds/drpeppapigphd
Summary: Myra Mormont is forced to accept Sandor Clegane as her sworn sword... things may be off to a rocky start, but she soon finds that there is more to her solemn protector than what meets the eye.
Relationships: Sandor Clegance/original character, Sandor Clegane x original character, The Hound x original character, The Hound/original character
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	1. (SFW) Beautiful and Terrifying

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you to Yolandi for her request (visit my profile for instructions on how to make your own request!); I’m really excited about this one. 
> 
> Just FYI, I will be trying to tag the chapters diligently for SFW/NSFW but also a small piece of Non-Con. 
> 
> I hope you dears are staying well out there; the globe is crazy right now but we do what we must. Xx Cheers, Peppa

“It’s not my responsibility to explain your duties to you, Myra,” Jeor Mormont murmurs as he gently scolds his only daughter from across the heavy oak table. His kind eyes are juxtaposed against the firm line of his lips, framed by his white beard in his old age. Myra has always loved her father’s eyes and the way that he looks at her; no matter how many times he chided or reprimanded, she could tell from his gaze that it was all based in love and pride. That pride is all she can cling to as she digs her nails into the table. A growl rumbles deep in her throat.

“I am not asking you to explain my duties, father, for this is no duty of mine. I am the heir to Bear Island and proud to say so. I do not need a sworn sword to protect me.” Myra’s gray eyes—just like her mother’s—brim with tears that she will not and cannot cry. Not now. “I have trained with our best men for years and have always bested them all. Even Lyanna would agree that she’d rather have me than half of her top guard... and she is the most stubborn and particular person I’ve ever met. Certainly you do not expect me to depend on him?” Whirling around to face the dark corner near the door, Myra locks eyes with Sandor Clegane... The Hound. 

Jeor continues: “I have heard more than enough from you about why you disagree, darling, but I’m afraid we have no other choice. The Lannisters have decided that they want Bear Island for themselves and I will not have it pulled out from under you via assassination. I will not hear another word from you on the subject. Am I understood?” 

Sandor takes Myra in as her eyes seem to blaze through his skin. She is fired up by her father’s words, of course, but he suspects that this is not the first time that she has displayed such a short temper. Her light brown hair is long and intricately braided; sharp cheekbones protrude above her lips which are reddened by the blush that has overcome her face. She is beautiful and terrifying all at once. Sandor has no interest, of course, in being her sworn sword... but a gig is a gig and anything that pays well and insults the Lannisters, he can get on board with. 

“Since I have no choice but to comply, I shall do so. But I will not enjoy it,” Myra hisses as she gives Sandor one last looking over and whips back around to face her father. “Here We Stand,” she hisses begrudgingly before giving her father a quick bow and storming out of the room. 

“Here We Stand,” Jeor responds, then turns to face Sandor. “I apologize for her temper, Clegane... she has always been just like her mother,” Jeor reminisces.

“I imagine that it will make my job easier, my lord, seein’ as I don’t have to worry about her bein’ a damsel in distress.” The two men chuckle. 

“Please, sit,” Jeor gestures to the table. Sandor slowly takes the seat at the opposite end, keeping his distance from the Commander, but a small smirk remains on his face at the thought of Myra being helpless in any situation... if such a thing were possible.

“I am heading back to Castle Black at daybreak tomorrow and that is when I expect you to begin your duties. Have you any further questions for me?” 

“I think you answered everything, my lord... I’ll protect her with my life, though I’d imagine she might be keen on killin’ me herself.” The two share a laugh again, and Jeor nods. 

“I hardly ever fear for my daughter, Clegane... she is, as you can tell, a fiery spirit. She’s light on her feet. Strategic... remarkably fast... stubborn, but in a good way,” he smiles. “She can be kind when she wants to, gentle if she chooses to... and she loves those closest to her more passionately than I’ve ever seen someone love. I think this has all been a big transition for her, you know... Since Jorah left, she now has a target on her back that she has never worried about before. You’ll keep her safe, though, I can sense it. Well, good man,” Jeor announces, rising from his seat, “I shall be off to pack my belongings and try to rest. My only other piece of advice is this: don’t call her ‘girl’ or anything that she might find condescending. She will be quick to remind you that she is a lady, and I doubt she’ll use her words,” Jeor teases as he mimes loosing a bow and arrow.

“Yes, my lord. Safe travels,” Sandor grumbles, ready to be alone for the last time in a long time. He follows Jeor out into the hallway where they part ways; his long brown hair sways in time with the sound of his clinking armor that echoes off of the stone walls. Upon his return to his new quarters, Sandor disrobes and climbs into bed. Sleep finds him quickly as he is exhausted from the journey to Bear Island and the mental labor of trying to decide how soon you can know that you hate your job. He decides that you can’t know instantly, as much as he would like to, and that protecting Myra will be entertaining at the very least... 

Across the hall, Myra tosses and turns—the quiet rage she feels about the whole situation makes her want to pace back and forth across the room until she collapses. But, she decides against it because she will not let them get the best of her. A bear will not be dismayed by the presence of a hound. 


	2. (SFW) A Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation in the wee hours of the morning.

Myra wakes to the sound of her bedroom door opening; it’s still dark outside, but she can tell that it’s nearly dawn because she can see the figure of her father standing in her doorway and his white beard reflecting the sliver of light shining through the window in the ceiling.

“I’m leaving now, my dear. I hope you’ll forgive me for hiring Clegane. It doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re capable or attentive, I am just your father... it is a parent’s duty to worry about their children day and night,” he whispers with a grin. 

Myra, sitting up in her bed and clutching the covers around her shoulders to keep out the chill, returns his smile and squints through sleepy eyes. “I know, Papa. I love you, too. Have a safe journey to the wall... say ‘hello’ to Jon and Samwell for me, will you?” Her father nods, appeased, and closes the door softly. Myra slowly lays back down and fights back the tears brimming in her eyes. Unlike yesterday, she lets them roll slowly down her cheeks which are rosy from the chilly morning air blowing through the skylight. 

Jeor leaving for the wall the first time several years back was equally as painful as every time after that. Myra always prayed to the old gods and the new that it would not be the last time she would see him. Even though he wrote constantly, it was not the same as being able to see his smiling eyes across the dinner table. After laying there for a moment, she decides that dwelling on it won’t help... and she doesn’t want Clegane to see that she has been crying. 

Climbing out of bed and pulling on her blouse, trousers, riding boots, and her archery vest, Myra starts to feel more like herself. She shakes her long brown hair out of its braid and looks in the mirror. She reminds herself so much of her mother that it’s kind of hard to think about it too long... so she doesn’t. Grabbing her bow from its place by the door, she slips out the door and makes her way outside as quietly as she can. 

Sandor hears soft footsteps passing by his door and begins putting on his armor. He has been awake for hours, tossing and turning, grumbling to himself. It’s hard to sleep when you are trying to read your new protectee. He swipes his hair out of his furrowed brow and fumbles out into the courtyard, still groggy from the lack of sleep and permanently in a bad mood. He stops in his tracks when he sees Myra in the hazy glow of dawn. The cold has left a frost on the ground and he can see his own breath as it leaves his lips. She is poised to release an arrow; her fingers curl lightly at her sharp cheekbone, threatening to unleash the lethal stretch of willow and steel when she sees him. Her eyes flit to meet his just for a moment, then she looses the arrow. It whistles through the morning air and pierces a raven sitting, unknowingly, on a dangerously exposed part of the stable fence. 

“You’re up early,” Sandor murmurs quietly. 

“I don’t like to waste time, Clegane,” Myra returns in a matter of fact tone. 

“Aye, lots of menacin’ birds to kill I see.” 

“That one had a message I did not care much for....” 

“From who, mylady?” 

“Don’t ‘mylady’ me, Clegane, I am no real lady... but the message was for me and not you.” 

“If I’m meant to protect you...mmm...”

“Call me ‘Myra.’” 

“Myra... I need to know who is tryin’ to reach you, especially your enemies...”

“Enemies seems like too strong a word to use, but...” She hands him the note, furrowing her own brow in a mix of distrust and concern. “What do you think he wants?” 

Sandor pauses, then grunts, “Nothing good... Walder Frey never wants anything good.” 


	3. (SFW) Frey at the Twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting so patiently! I didn’t have it in me to proofread after I finished the chapter, but I don’t think it should be too rough. ;-) Enjoy!

Walder Frey had never been much for keeping company. In fact, the only company he seemed to keep around were his groveling manservants and his poor daughters. Visitors often stayed only as long as absolutely necessary and sighed with a great sense of relief as soon as they were on the road again. Myra had not been to The Twins since she was about 12 or 13, and she often thought about how lucky she was to get out in one piece. She was certainly old enough for him to try and marry her off to one of his lieges, but Jeor would never have allowed it.

“Clegane,” she calls over her shoulder as their horses trudge through thick mud on a grey morning. 

“Aye,” he grumbles, irritated that she has broken the Elysian peace of pure silence that they had endured for all of the ride thus far. 

“Do you think Walder Frey still keeps all of his daughters around, or has he finally gotten too old to be a leech of youthful innocence?” 

Sandor chuckles under his breath, surprised once again by Myra’s tact for well-timed wit and unladylike vocabulary. “Aye, I suspect so... I was ‘ere at the Twins ‘bout two years ago now, an’ he still had ‘em all lurkin’ about in the great room.”  
Myra gripes and curses Walder under her breath. He makes her skin crawl. It’s such a shame that The Twins are so lovely, she thinks; it’s a great house with a slimy old man for a Lord. As she and Clegane approach, a grimy guard holds up his hand as if to bring them to a halt. 

“And what do ye think yer doin, eh?” 

“We’re—” Myra is interrupted by the guard as he leans over to spit into the mud at her horse’s feet. 

“I’ll not speak to ye, lass, and ye best not speak out of turn again if ye know what’s good for ye.” 

Clegane swallows hard as he sees Myra tense up; she slowly turns to face him with her jaw clenched tightly and nostrils flared. Her eyes pierce into his own and he returns his gaze to the guard. 

“This is Lady Myra Mormont, Heir to Bear Island; she commands yer respect and you’ll not speak to ‘er that way again,” Sandor growls. The guard gulps and motions them onwards through the gates of the Twins. 

“If it wouldn’t have a negative impact on our first impression, I would’ve handled that differently,” Myra snarls after the two have gained just enough distance to be out of earshot of the guard. Sandor nods in agreement and cocks an eyebrow. The two say very little to the stable hand who agrees to care for their horses and speak to no one else on their way inside. The Twins are dreary and cold just as Myra remembered from her childhood. They follow the head servant through the winding stone hallways until they come to a familiar great room; Myra had shared many a meal here back when the Tullys held Riverrun and thus most of the estates in the Riverlands. Once it was handed over the Freys, visits became fewer and fewer from one year to the next. 

Walder Frey sees her before she sees him, and he struggles into a standing position; crippled by both age and a lack of basic hygiene, he is just as much like a fairytale villain as she remembers him to be. His lip curls up into a menacing grin, revealing his teeth like a predator ready to pounce. 

“I always knew you’d grow into a fine young woman, Myra, just like your mother... but I never could have imagined that you’d be this beautiful. You’ve exceeded my expectations, dear girl,” Walder coos in his unsettling attempt at seduction. 

“Lord Frey,” Myra says in a forcibly even tone, bowing to the old man just far enough to be considered polite. Sandor mirrors her and bows quickly, then stands alert just a foot behind Myra—taking in the room and eyeing the exits. They clearly hadn’t been invited to a celebration of some sort; the only other people in the room were Walder’s ghostlike daughters... lurking eerily behind every column and curtain. 

“Come closer, dear girl, my eyesight is failing me these days. Let me take a look at you.” 

Reluctantly, Myra approaches the old man and he snatches at her hip bones pulling her into his frame, then wrapping her in a hug; she winces and stiffens, but doesn’t say anything for fear of setting him off; Walder always walked a thin line between civility and violence. Thankfully, he releases his grip and, much to Myra’s surprise, she feels Clegane’s hand on her shoulder, pulling her back to their original position several feet away. 

“I received your letter, m’lord. Why, may I ask, have you summoned me?”   
“Aye, I summoned you... but not him.” Walder eyes Sandor for the first time since the two came into the Great Hall. 

“This is Sir Clegane, m’lord, my sworn sword.” 

Walder’s eyes light up in surprise; “Clegane. Sandor Clegane?” He laughs incredulously. “The Hound becomes a sworn sword... Just when I thought I’d seen it all.” 

Myra nods softly, stealing a glance at Sandor as he glares at Walder. “The highest honor I’ve had in a long time, m’lord,” Sandor says seriously. Myra tucks a stray hair behind her ear. 

“Anyway, I’ve asked you here because I need a favor from House Mormont and your father is off doing whatever shit he does nowadays. I want to send some of my men to House Mormont to train.” Walder gestures at the corner of the hall behind them, where 4 young boys are sitting—and shivering—in new armor. 

“If I may, m’lord—” Myra begins. 

“And in exchange, I’ll not lay siege to Bear Island as we make our way to Winterfell.” 

After a sharp inhale of surprise and bubbling anger, Myra hisses “Lay siege? Perhaps I misunderstand your meaning, sir. Are you threatening Houes Mormont? And what business have you in Winterfell?” 

Walder grins his sly smile, brimming with evil and dripping with pride. “You heard me well, girl. Alternatively, you could agree to stay here with me and be my new bride. I do like to give you options. I am generous, as you well know.” 

Myra pivots on her heel without another word and nods at Sandor; the two head to the back of the room and rally the boys who are clearly dreading being thrust into any kind of violence. 

“Pity,” Walder sighs, “I had almost hoped for the latter after seeing how you’ve blossomed.” 

Myra purses her lips in disgust and exits the hall without a proper goodbye, Sandor and nonnegotiable trainees in tow.

“I’ll go back in there and gut him right now, if ye want,” Sandor offers as the large wooden door closes behind them. Myra raises an eyebrow, giving it a moment of thought. Instead of answering, she mindlessly places a hand on Sandor’s bicep, thanking him for the offer. Just as quickly as they came, they left with the 4 scrawny lads scuffling along behind their muddied horses. 

“How long will we train them?” Sandor asks after they’ve passed through the gate. 

“Long enough that Frey thinks we’ve obeyed his orders,” Myra explains, “and no longer than that. When we send them back, it will be winter. If they don’t make the journey, they can’t say we didn’t uphold our end of the bargain.” Sandor nods, surprised once again at her ruthlessness, and somewhat impressed. 

They ride most of the way back in silence; the soldiers hardly stumble across the bridge to Bear Island before collapsing into the dirt. “You can find supper in the servants’ quarters; tell Greta that Lady Myra sent you and she’ll find you a place to sleep,” Myra commands the new “troop.” They trudge off to the servants’ hall, desperate for food and a place to sit down. Myra and Sandor walk slowly to the stable, gripped with exhaustion and anger. 

“Is he always so fuckin’ handsy... Frey?” Sandor asks quietly as they remove the tak from their horses. 

Myra smirks, then grits her teeth. After a moment has passed, she nods, “aye. For as long as I can remember her couldn’t keep his hands to himself. I always feel like I need to bathe after he’s touched me.” Sandor’s nods in understanding. “I don’t blame ye...” 

  
•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅• 

After finally getting to eat supper and heading off to her quarters, Myra drags her tired body into her room. She lights a candle and shuts the door, only to find a tub full of steaming water. A note rests on top of a wash rag that had been placed on the chair next to the metal tub. It reads “Wash him off of ye” in a scrawled hand. A small smile crosses her face and she pulls her muddy riding clothes off, tossing them into the floor and eagerly sinking into the hot water. She closes her eyes and sighs deeply as the water warms her bones. She thinks of Sandor and how it may not be so bad to have him around after all. 


	4. (SFW) An Unwelcome Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visitor comes to House Mormont.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! Sorry it has taken so long. 2020 and all that jazz... the NSFW is coming. ;)

  
If it weren’t for the moonlight shining through the roof in her room, Myra would never have seen the figure standing in the corner of her room, watching her in the darkness of wee hours just before dawn. Her breath hitches and she stifles a scream that had shot up from the depths of her lungs to the back of her throat. As she does so, she sucks in a gulp of cold, crisp air and a shiver runs down her spine. The figure tilts its head to the side as if it is inspecting her more closely now that she is awake. It begins to take a step towards her when Myra rips a dagger out from under her pillow and thrusts it out towards the corner. 

“Tell me who you are and why you’re here or I’ll kill you more quickly than you can cross this floor,” she hisses through clenched teeth. She is menacing, like her brother, Jorah, when those he loves have been harmed. She is intimidating, like her father, when she has to protect her home. She is fierce, like her mother, when someone dares to threaten a lady of House Mormont. And in this moment, she is terrified that she will be murdered in her nightgown just when things seem to be improving. 

“I’d think you would recognize an old friend, my darling girl,” a familiar voice teases darkly. “You have a better memory than anyone I know.” Myra rifles through her memories, desperate to piece together the puzzle. “It has been nearly 3 years since I’ve seen you and you are somehow even more beautiful than the last time... and sharper than ever, I see.” Suddenly she pieces it together. 

“Littlefinger,” Myra says softly, though begrudgingly. 

“Come now, little bear, we’re friends. Call me ‘Peter.’” He steps into the light of the moon and removes the hood of his cloak, revealing his dark and silver hair and the permanent look of candor and condescension on his face. 

“I don’t believe that friends break into their friends' homes and watch them sleep,” Myra scoffs. 

“I brought you a message from King’s Landing. From another old ... friend, you see...” 

Reluctantly, Myra reaches out to take a parcel from Littlefinger’s outstretched hand. But, as she pulls it towards her, he grips her wrist clutching the dagger and smirks like he always does. “No payment for your dedicate messenger?” He coos, jerking her arm in towards his torso causing her to drop the dagger. As he does so, she lets out an uncharacteristic yelp. She can’t help but feel vulnerable in her nightgown—armorless—and without her bow, having just been woken from the grogginess of sleep. Her heart is racing now, and she feels the blood rushing to her head. 

“You know your mother and I shared a night together in this very fortress when she was about your age. You look so much like her, but you’re not nearly as easy to persuade,” Littlefinger taunts as he clutches at Myra’s throat with his free hand. He wraps his hand around her neck, cradling her jaw and tilting her head from side to side, turning her head as if he were inspecting her face for something. “I think you’ll be surprised, m’lady, by how much you enjoy—“ 

Suddenly, the room is flooded with warm light from the torches in the hallway. The door flies open so violently that it crashes hard against the stone and begins to shut again, but it is pinned back against the wall by a very large, tightly clenched fist. Sandor takes up almost the entirety of the doorframe and he dwarfs Littlefinger in the shadow that he casts across the room. No words, just a low growl, escape his lips. The distraction has given Myra enough time to pry Baelish’s hands off of her throat and recover her dagger that had dropped onto the floor. 

“Ah, Clegane, old friend... I can explain”—he is interrupted by Sandor’s fist balling up his collar and using it to lift him off of the floor. 

“Can ye?” Sandor mocks, dangling Littlefinger over a foot off of the floor and whispering violently less than an inch from his face. His brown eyes are darkened with rage and Myra studies his rapid breathing, watching him teeter on the edge of waiting for a response or ripping Littlefinger in two. 

“I don’t care why yer here, you miserable piece of shit. Get out. Now. And if ye so much as look at Lady Myra again I will rip yer head clean off yer body. Understand me?” Sandor bears his teeth, Littlefinger swallows hard and nods as vigorously as he can without strangling himself with his own collar. 

As quickly as he had appeared, he was gone. Myra sighs a breath of relief to see Littlefinger fleeing the room and down the long corridor. Sandor watches from the doorway to make sure that he truly left, then quickly rushes to Myra who is standing over her bed, shivering from shock and wielding a dagger with a shaky hand. Sandor gently removes the dagger from her fingers and lights a candle on the table. Slowly, Myra sinks to sit on the edge of her bed and rubs at her wrist with her opposite hand. 

“Are ye hurt? Did he hurt ye?” Sandor asked quickly, kneeling in front of her and trying to read her face for any signs of injury. 

“He scared me more than anything, really. My wrist and neck will be sore, but otherwise, I’m alright.” Sandor exhales and his shoulders relax every so softly. 

“He could have done much worse, Myra...” Sandor’s face is pained, he purses his lips trying to stop imagining what Baelish could have done... would have done. 

“I’ll be just fine, Sandor... perhaps I do need a sworn sword.” Myra smiles softly and places a hand, cautiously—and tenderly—on Sandor’s cheek. He flinches slightly, but then his brow softens.

“I don’t think ye should sleep in here alone tonight. I’ll stand watch,” Sandor offers. 

“I’ll be just fine, I swear.” Sandor seems unconvinced, but Myra nods reassuringly. “If it will make you feel better, you can stay until I fall asleep.” Sandor begrudgingly accepts the compromise and sinks down to sit at the foot of Myra’s bed. He listens as her breathing slows and as she murmurs to herself as she drifts off. Slowly, he turns his head to look at her, bathed in moonlight and the intermittent flicker of the warm candle flame.

She is priceless, he thinks. “I will guard you with my life,” he whispers hardly loud enough for even he himself to hear.


	5. A Dark Memory (SFW; TW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myra and Sandor make new arrangements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Brief mention of sexual assault. Read at your own discretion. It’s after the fancy divider.

It’s not the sound of Sandor shifting and stretching at the foot of her bed as he wakes after sleeping on a cold floor all night in stubborn fulfillment of his sworn-sword duties that wakes Myra. It’s the shuffling of feet and the clanging of swords that she can hear on the other side of the wall. Myra bolts up onto her knees and presses her ear against the wall. The sudden movement startles Sandor and he lets out a grunt. 

“Do you hear that?” Myra whispers with urgency. 

“It’s the Frey boys trainin’ for battle.” Sandor grumbles as if it’s common knowledge. 

Myra furrows her brows and stares at back of Sandor’s head in confusion; she notices how his long brown hair falls in loose waves, untouseled due to his lack of pillow.

“And why would they be doing that unprompted?” 

“They were prompted, alright—I let ‘em have it last night after you went to sleep. They were up drinkin’ ale and tossin’ about in the common room and I told them that if they were not up sparring before the sun came up that I would train them each with me own sword and they’d have the biggest elm branch they could find.” Sandor chuckles as a look of amusement crosses Myra’s face.

“There are no elm trees on Bear Island.”

“I think that’s why they’re out there sparrin’...”

The two of them laugh, and Sandor rises to sit on the end of Myra’s bed. She sinks back onto her heels, watching him move as he continues to stretch, clearly stiff from a night spent sitting up.   
Myra tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear and looks down at her hands folded in her lap. 

“Thank you, Sandor ... for last night. I’m sorry that you had to sleep on the floor”—

“Don’t apologize to me, I was just doin’ my job. If I ever see that Baelish bastard again...”

“I don’t think you will,” Myra snickers, “I don’t think I’ve seen a grown man run away that fast in my life.” But Sandor doesn’t even crack a smile. 

“I don’t think ye should sleep alone until we know for sure that he’s gone. I think it best that you take my bed and I’ll sleep on the servant’s cot next to it.” Before Myra can protest, he lifts a hand and halts her speech. “I’m not askin’ for yer opinion.” He looks at Myra in her nightgown, which is drooping off of one shoulder, her fingers toying nervously with one another in her lap, her deepened brow and tousled hair—he insists on protecting her at all costs, whether she likes it or not. 

“I wasn’t going to disagree ... but I was going to apologize for your loss of freedom.” 

“My freedom is mine to give. And I rarely use my free hours at night to do anythin’ but sleep anyways. Sleepin’ on a cot is no different than in a bed, at least to me. I’m just glad to have a place to sleep that isn’t in a barn or in the same building as a Lannister.” 

They both chuckle, lightening the seriousness of the moment, then Sandor leaves to go get dressed to train the Frey boys. Myra armors up, too, and prepares for a day of impatient archery lessons. 

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅• 

“May I ask you a question, mylady?” asks one of the Frey boys with a hunk of coarse bread still in his mouth. He is covered head to toe in thick, dark mud, from the ruthless training that Sandor had terrified the boys into. His bright eyes peer through the mud at Myra who sits near him at the head of the table, trying to peacefully enjoy her supper. 

“Go on,” she says, attempting to mask her irritation at his polite interruption. 

“Do you think us lot will have to go back to him... Lord Frey, that is?” 

Myra could sense the fear in his voice, and stealing a glance at Sandor who was seated at the other head of the table, she could tell that he could, too—even from so far away. 

“You will stay with me as long as I see fit to train you. And while your master likely hopes that your training will be a short ordeal, I suspect that it will take several more months at the very least... and I cannot send you home during a blizzard, you’ll all die on the way there. So you’ll stay here for now and for the foreseen future.” 

She can tell that the words eased the boy’s burden, and perhaps that of his cohorts, as a light chatter of approval rises from most of the table’s occupants. Walder Frey must be awfully cruel to these boys if they would rather spar in the cold mud all day, Myra thinks to herself. She shudders, remembering a time when she, too, would rather spar in the cold mud than face a malicious man who wielded his power like a hot knife.

On her sixteenth name day, Jorah sent her a sword made of dragon glass to mark the occasion. It had arrived days earlier and her father had the local blacksmith polish it; then he stored it in his own case until the night of her celebratory feast. She cherished the gift from her slightly estranged brother and hardly put it down all evening. To take a break from of all of the drunken guests and chaotic dancing, Myra stepped out into the cool evening air and left her new weapon safe in its case, just for a few minutes. She had not been outside long before a wicked man who had met her father after he joined the Night’s Watch came out to watch her. 

“Pretty evening, miss,” he murmured drunkenly through gritted teeth.   
“I needed some air,” Myra responded shortly—nervously—and furrowed her brow at the man’s movements to close the gap between them. 

“Don’t get to cold out here, miss; come here and I’ll keep you warm”—he sneered, grabbing Myra and pulling her into his body by the wrists. She yelled and protested, but he was too strong. Before she knew it, he had wrestled her to the ground and was prying her corset off. He had filleted it open, exposing her torso to the freezing night air, when one of Jeor’s tenants came busting out of the barn door in response to Myra’s muffled screams. She can’t remember much after that because she has blacked it all out as best she could, but every time she thinks of Walder Frey, a fragment of that memory flashes through her mind. 

“Myra,” Sandor says for the third time, but she hears him for the first—snapping out of her trance.

“Yes, sorry ... daydreaming.” Myra rubs her eyes with the back of her hand and tosses her napkin on the table. She realizes that the boys have left the table and she has finished most of her meal, Now, Sandor looms over her, a look of concern plastered plainly on his face. 

“Why don’t ye do some normal dreamin’ instead... it’s time for bed.”

Myra manages a nod, then follows Sandor to his quarters for her first night in his room.


	6. (SFW) The Night is Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comfort in chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: cuddling? Not necessarily NSFW but I don’t know where you draw the line, dear reader. :)

Sandor feels the weight of sleep dragging his lids down across his tired eyes, but he can’t help himself. Directly across from the cot that he barely fits on—legs curled up to his torso like a child—is Myra, soundly asleep and ethereal as ever. He watches the gentle rise and fall of her chest; admires the flush on her cheeks from warm blankets; shifts uncomfortably as he resists the urge to reach out run a finger down her soft cheek. Finally, he relents, and closes his eyes. Just as he is drifting off, he lurches to a heightened state of awareness as Myra shoots straight up in bed with a desperate gasp. When her eyes meet his, it grounds her, and she places a hand to her collarbone as if it will still the panting. Sandor feels his heart constrict in his chest with the combination of being startled from the brink of sleep and watching her suffer through the effects of nightmares—a terror that had plagued him, too, all of his life. But instead of making a joke or rolling back over to resume her slumber, Myra bites back tears stinging at the corner of her eyes; Sandor can hardly believe it. 

“I know it wasn’t real,” she begins; he hears a lump catch in her throat... “but it felt like it was happening, that it was...” Myra stumbles over her words, dragging the heel of her hand through an unruly eyebrow. Unsure of what to do, and doing it before he can stop himself, Sandor takes the hand settled in Myra’s lap. “Aye, yer safe now, Myra... it was just in yer head, that’s all.” 

His gentility causes her breath to catch in her throat just as it was finally returning to normal. Slowly, she lays back down but maintains an iron grip on Sandor’s hand, clutching the back of it to her sternum and grimacing as her eyes close. Sandor tries his best to go to sleep—again—but it’s impossible because, this time, he can hear his heartbeat in his ears and feel Myra’s against the back of his hand, thrumming gently in time with one another. 

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

  
Several hours have passed, and the sun has yet to come up, but Myra is awake, gripping the hand of a snoring Sandor and looking at his face in the moonlight. “Beautiful,” she whispers under her breath. His strong brow and dark hair are hardly something soft and warm. They’re cool and rigid, but not unwelcoming like stone. They are, she decides, firm like a tree trunk or a block of ice—beautiful miracles of the natural world that exist as if it’s perfectly normal to transcend the monotony of every day life whilst still blending in, unnoticed. 

More slowly and gently than she has ever moved in her life, she drops his hand onto his hip, praying to the Mother that he will not wake, and crawls off of the bed. She closes the small space between the bed and the cot as she climbs in next to him. She huddles up to his back, nestling her head between his shoulder blades; his body tenses as he wakes, but he softens as her soft rhythmic breathing warms his spine. They both sleep soundly for a few more hours. 

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

  
Sandor wakes before Myra does and find that they have both shifted in their sleep. Her forehead is now resting on his chest, rising and falling softly as he tries to control his breathing. Soft snores sneak through her lips as he tries not to move his arms that are wrapped tightly around the small of her back. I should get up, he thinks to himself, or I can stay and enjoy this a while longer. So he does, resting his eyes and waiting for her to stir. 

Another hour or so passes, then Myra’s eyes flutter open. Just as deftly as she had joined him, she slipped off of the cot to leave a resting Sandor and go get prepared for the day. She felt the warmth in her cheeks burning in opposition to cool air in the hallway, and scurried off to her room to get dressed. Sandor, on the other hand, placed a hand in the spot where she had been, feeling the same warmth radiating off of his sheets—a dream perhaps, something he had imagined... realized by the temperature of cotton threads.


	7. Little Bear (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! <3

Neither spoke much all day after the events of the evening before. Small talk ensued here and there, yes, but it was dishonest in the light of what had been shared in the cold, wee hours of night. They trained all day with the Frey recruits, cursing the chill of winter winds biting through worn tunic sleeves. It wasn’t until all had eaten and retreated to bed that the two were forced to face the facts... and each other. 

“Myra,” Sandor whispers as he shuts the door behind him. She stands almost two feet away—close enough to touch if she were to more a hair closer, but far enough that Sandor would have to take less than a step to close the gap. And he does. 

“You must stop me at once if you are disagreeable, Sandor”—she interrupts—“because I cannot keep playing this game and prancing about when I know what I want.” She runs her hands down his chest; he stiffens, but does not pull away. His head tilts down to watch her fingers inspect his torso, roaming and remembering. “And what I want is right here.” 

“Myr—”

Sandor’s soft reply is muffled by a kiss that Myra has to strain to give, standing on the tips of his boots and still not comfortably close. He tilts further down to ease her burden, pressing into the kiss as if he needs her to breathe. “Do you want this?” She sighs between kisses, waiting for his answer. Instead, she gets a low, rasping growl accompanied by two firms hands gripping her at the waist. She thinks he is about to push her away, but instead he lifts her effortlessly and lays her down on his bed that he had selflessly given up for her the night before. 

“I’m no fool,” he murmurs with a smirk before burying his face in her neck, running his tongue across tendons, biting lightly on her clavicle—burning her in his wake, summoning prayers from her lips. “I’ve always wanted you. Had to be patient, though,” he teases. Myra can only nod breathlessly, willing her mouth not to keep falling open with gentle sighs; she resigns herself to that fate, letting herself be vulnerable and exposed in his presence. 

“Sandor, please,” she begs, running a hand over the hard length pressing against the confines of his trousers. He lets out a primal grunt at the touch but gently stills her, holding her wrist to her side. “It’s your turn to be patient now, little bear.” His words send shivers ups her spine which she instinctively arches to press her hips into his. He tsks again, warning her not to misbehave. The moan leaving her lips is quickly converted to a gasp when he pushes her knees apart and tears her boots from her feet before ripping her pants from her legs. His grip returns to her knees, which he splays open even further, holding them down to the bed beneath her with an iron grip. “Good, patient girls get what they deserve. Can you be a patient, little bear? Can you be good?”

All Myra can manage is a belligerent nod an a forceful bite to her bottom lip. Sandor smirks as he runs a massive, calloused finger down her slit at a tortuously slow pace. “All of this for me?” He gathers some of the abundant slick there and reaches for Myra to show her up close, but she quickly grabs his wrist and forces his finger into her mouth. She moans around it as he lets out a growl of his own. It seems to spur him on as he frees his finger from her mouth and, without warning, plunges it into her heat. Before she can make a sound, his mouth is on her, rolling her sensitive clit with his tongue. Sandor moans into her mound as Myra whimpers in delight. After he has maintained this rhythmic dance for a few minutes, he feels her walls beginning to tighten around his finger. He slows, then stops completely, much to the fiery protests of Myra. 

“Sandor, please! I—I’m so close, why did you stop?” Her voice cracks on the last word as she feels his answer prodding at her aching entrance. Her eyes meet Sandor’s dark, furrowed brow; she takes in the mirth that has made itself at home there, watching him try to create an air of control and patience knowing full well that he is engaging every last drop of it in his body based on the bruising grip he has on her thigh. She nods again, brushing a hand lightly over his scarred cheek. His eyelids flutter ever so slightly at the touch. “Please,” she breathes, and her prayer is answered. 

Sandor seats himself deep inside of her, filling her past a point she thought possible and stretching her in a way that was painfully blissful. The cry she releases at the intrusion is soft and overpowered by the gasp that Sandor lets out. He can feel it, too. The next few moments are surreal as it only takes a series of slow, intentional thrusts to send Myra over the edge. She cries out his name as her body tenses and shakes, waves of pleasure rolling through her as if she had been possessed. Her peak brings his to fruition, and soon he is groaning into the warm hollow of her neck, releasing his pleasure in her warm heat, relishing in the unmatched closeness. 

They lay there for a moment, trying to breathe and running shaky hands up and down each other’s bodies. Finally, Sandor breaks the silence with a soft whisper against her neck. “Next time, I want to see you—all of you—little bear. You were so good for me that you deserve some adoration.” All Myra can do is giggle sheepishly into his shoulder and pull him in closer.


End file.
